


All The Little Pieces

by CantSpeakFae



Series: Once More With Glitter [7]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Awkward Tension, Demonic Possession, Giles' dad is an asshole, Graphic Descriptions of Torture, Heavy Angst, It's going to get worse before it gets better, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Past Torture, Randall's coming out of his cage and he's a WRECK, Referenced violence, Reunions, The Council is evil, They both have feelings they don't know what to do with
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 21:55:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15872484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CantSpeakFae/pseuds/CantSpeakFae
Summary: Randall and Giles sit down to talk about what happened to Randall in the last fifteen years since they last saw each other. But with all that's revealed, one thing still remains a mystery: what does the Council - and Rupert's Father - have to gain by bringing Randall to Sunnydale NOW?





	All The Little Pieces

The ride to Giles' flat is quiet, uncomfortably so. He tries to point out some of the town's landmarks as they pass - the Espresso Pump, the direction of the University, the road the High School is on, 7 out of the 12 cemeteries - but his voice is too...bright to his own ears, too forced to be casual, and eventually he stops speaking until he parks behind his building.   
  
He turns off the engine, and it ticks loudly as it cools in the quiet night.   
  
Giles licks his lips and doesn't turn to look at Randall as he speaks.   
  
“You should know...I, ah, am a Watcher, to a very special Slayer.  She has already been through more trauma in the past year than I had my entire life until…”   
  
He coughs softly.   
  
“Suffice to say, she is special, and...I don't know why my father really brought you here, now, but I won't allow you to harm her, Randall.I don't know what happened to you, or what your intentions are...but I need to make that clear. Even to you.”

The tension between them was palpable from the moment that they climbed into his car and nothing could distract from it. Not his attempts to play as a cheerful tour guide, not the simple serenity of a quiet night, and not even the limitless flowing energy of The Sleepwalker that rises and falls inside of him, washing over him like the tide to the shore and erasing the footprints of his anxiety before he can really feel the panic.    
  
Randall's felt a lot of things about what's happened to him in the past and what still in store...but anger had never really been one of those feelings. Not until he had to sit in the dark and listen to his oldest friend talk to him like he was some kind of dangerous, unstable  _ thing. _   
  
They - The Council - had stolen a lot of things from him. Time, the chance at a peaceful afterlife... but nothing stung quite as much as being stripped of his identity.    
  
He's not Randall, anymore. Not to anyone. And that's what makes the dam break. He's  _ seething _ , his jaw throbbing with the tension of keeping it clenched shut, his heartbeat racing and pounding like thunder in his chest, his stomach twisting. He clenches his hands into fists in the pockets of his jacket struggling valiantly to resist the urge to punch something or someone, seeing as how the only person he was near is the last person he'd ever hurt. Even accidentally.    
  
And...just as quickly as the anger came, it's gone. Shoved away and buried under reason and self-discipline. He forces himself to relax. Find the line between him and the demon and jump right back over to his side of their shared instincts.   
  
“I'm not here to hurt anybody.” He says, finally, turning to look at him, hoping against hope that his eyes are still dark and not glowing with the faint traces of the energy he almost lost control of. “Not her. Not you”

Giles' relief is nearly palpable. If Randall says he's not here to harm Buffy...then Giles will take his word on that.*

“Good...that...that's good to know. Thank you.”   
  
Giles turns to look at Randall, but the soft smile melts from his lips as he catches a glimpse of glowing, yellow eyes in the darkness. The glimpse is too brief, though, for Giles to be certain of what he saw, or even that he did see something, so he forces a small smile, and takes the keys from the ignition.   
  
“Well, we ought to get you inside and settled. I'm sure you must be exhausted from the flight.”

“...Sure.”

Randall says, his tone light and carefully so. He'd seen the falter in his expression; the way the smile had vanished at the sight of him and that, alone, tells him that he's not doing well enough to keep The Sleepwalker at bay. He's never really had to hide it, before. Not since he woke up in a cage; the people there were delighted by the evidence of a successfully risen half-demonically possessed _ thing _ .   
  
But here?    
  
Well, he's going to have to keep a better hold on himself. At least until he can explain everything. And even then, it might not change anything. Might just make it worse. But, he doesn't know until he tries, right?   
  
“Hey.” He says, softly, his hand on the door handle as a thought occurs to him. One way to make this whole thing a bit easier. “You don't go by Ripper, anymore, do you?”   
  
It almost hurts to say that name out loud. Like it's edged with shards of broken glass that cut all the way through his throat when he tries to get the word out. He hadn't said it in years...but that doesn't change the fact that it had meant something a long time ago. How many times had he said that name? And in how many ways?    
  
Sharply with annoyance when they argued over something pointless because sharing the same space was hard no matter how much they liked each other and sometimes there was nothing else to do but squabble with each other.   
  
Quiet with exasperation when Randall realized that he wasn't going to be able to talk him out of a crazier idea that was going to end with one or both of them getting hurt, because there's just never stopping him when he gets something in his head.    
  
Softly with uncertainty in the face of every strange, new situation. Not just within the new world of magic and blatant law-breaking, but with the common decency he treated Randall with.    
  
And, more often than not, breathlessly from where he was pinned down beneath him, goaded into begging and pleading because Ripper's a goddamn  _ tease _ and the only way to get his end way is to ask nicely enough. Only, there was never any set guidelines to how nicely he had to ask, and sometimes he'd be begging for an hour before Ripper caved.   
  
It's not easy, sitting in the dark of an unfamiliar place, realizing that the only thing that name belongs to now is memories. But if it's the only way to move forward...then it's just another thing he'll let go of. Buried alongside the graves of his mother and sister. Grim visualization, but it helps a bit.   
  
“Ah...what  _ should _ I call you?”

Giles freezes at the sound of the name he hasn't heard in years. A tidal wave of memories comes crashing down - good, bad, unbearably cringe-worthy, heart-stoppingly beautiful, painfully poignant - and for a very long moment, he completely forgets how to breathe.

“I, er, well...haven't gone by that in, er, quite a long time…”

Frankly, he hadn't  _ wanted _ to be called that name because it hurt too much knowing he'd never hear it again in the one voice that ever mattered.   
  
It seems that "never" only lasts about 15 years. Who knew?

“The, um, children call me Giles...but most, er, adults call me by my first name...Rupert. I, er, suppose you may call me anything you feel comfortable with...?”  
  
He forces another small smile. He's being an absolute rubbish host, what with getting wrapped up in his own feelings, and not focusing on making his guest comfortable. He tries to break the fresh coating of tension with another attempt at humor.  
  
“Please, just don't call me, "Hey, British Dude," as some students do…”

"...Hey, British Dude." 

Randall repeats and a genuinely amused smile brightens his face. He ducks his head, trying to hide just how funny he finds that, lest he offend his surprisingly amicable host...but he can't quite choke back his ~laughter and gives up, entirely, raising his head again and speaking as seriously as he can muster.   
  
“...It's a pretty creative nickname, innit? It's got a ring to it.”   
  
He laughs, again, but it's a bit fainter the second time when he realizes that this is the first time that he's ever been told his first name. Rip - erm, "Rupert" had guarded that like the holy grail; one of two things that you never found out about him. (The second one being why the hell they called him "Ripper", anyway). It puts a strange, sad feeling in his chest. A sort of bittersweet ache that he's starting to realize might just be his new normal.   
  
“...Rupert it is, then.”   
  
He says, quietly. Then, unable to take one more second in this car with nothing to distract from the tension between them, he opens the door and climbs out of it, like he can somehow leave all of the bitter feelings behind.

Giles appreciates the moment alone. It's the first time he's ever heard Randall use his given name, and it touches him in a way he cannot quite describe. Bittersweet, perhaps, comes closest.

He shakes the ghosts from his head and exits the car, locking the doors behind him.  He unlocks the boot to retrieve his briefcase, and slams the lid closed before gesturing for Randall to follow him.   
  
Giles leads Randall through the car park, and around the complex to the front door of his ground-floor flat. He unlocks and opens the door and reaches in to flick on the light switch before taking a step back so Randall can enter first.   
  
“Home sweet home...such as it is…”

“Oh,  _ hell!” _

Randall reels back away from the doorway, clasping a hand over his eyes and hissing like a mad cat that's just been tossed into a lake, nearly tripping over himself in his haste to get away from the light that's burning his eyes. He scrambles, reaching into his pocket to pull out his sunglasses and yank them over his eyes, shielding them from any further damage. There are spots of light dancing in his vision...but he can still make out the outlines of things, so he hasn’t been completely blinded.

“Bloody hell! What is it?”

Giles drops his briefcase, fumbles both a stake and a bottle of holy water from his jacket pocket, and lunges into his living room to face down whatever gave Randall such a fright.   
  
The living room is empty. Not a book out of place, everything exactly as he had left it before heading to the airport this afternoon. He turns around in confusion, weapons still wielded, until he sees Randall wearing...sunglasses...at night.   
  
“Oh, good lord…”   
  
Giles sets the weapons down on the coffee table, quickly turns a lamp onto it's dimmest setting, and strides back to the door to turn off the bright, overhead lights.  He picks up his briefcase before Randall can trip over it, and gently places his hand on Randall's elbow to guide him inside.   
  
“Good lord, Randall, I'm so sorry...I didn't think.”

“S'fine. I wasn't particularly prepared for that, either, and I  _ knew _ I'd been in the dark for fifteen years. Me and my medical degree...load of good it's done me.” He mutters, bitterly, allowing Rip -  _ Rupert _ to lead him inside, seeing as how his vision's gone wonky and the sunglasses aren't doing much to fix that so much as they are soothing his burned retinas. “I'm sure I'll get used to that in a month or two. Give or take a year.”

He has no actual frame of reference for how long that'll take to fix. He's not completely human anymore, after all, and Eyghon's magic does help with the healing process every now and then.   
  
“Nice place you've got, by the way. Wish I could see it.”   
  
He grins, trying to make light of it. Erm, no pun intended. 

Giles half coughs-half laughs as he leads Randall to the couch, then heads back to close and lock the door.

“Yes, well...low expectations means you'll never be disappointed...Would you care for some tea? Perhaps something stronger?”

“Tea's fine, thanks.”

Randall says, settling down against the couch with just the faintest air of feeling out of place. As much as he wants to say that he wants something stronger, and he mostly certainly does, he'd had a hard time handling his alcohol when he was eighteen and drank nightly. He doesn't want to imagine what sort of mess he'll turn into after nearly two decades of sobriety and being...well, he doesn't have to mention the age thing, now does he?   
  
Besides. He knows Rupert has questions. And it'll be easier to answer them if he has his head in the right place.   
  
“And then maybe we should talk, some. I know it's late...at least, I think it's late. I'm still on London time, so technically I feel like it's early, but...doesn't seem like a fine idea not to at least start the conversation.”

“Yes, yes, of course...There's so very much to catch up on.”

Giles pauses as if to say something more, perhaps about how much he's missed Randall, or how he could never apologize enough for what happened, or how the weight of his regret crushed the spark out of him, but how he would immediately and without hesitation give up those few amazing years, and everything else he could give, to change how it all ended. He pauses...then dips his chin in a quick nod as he ducks into the kitchen.   
  
With shaking hands, he plugs in the kettle and fetches the teapot from the dish drainer by the sink. He sets two cups and saucers onto a small tray, then fills the pot with hot water.   
  
The motions of the familiar ritual are soothing, and by the time Giles empties the hot water from the now warmed pot, and refills it along with a few spoons of his best loose-leaf English tea, his hands are steady. He adds spoons and a sugar bowl to the tray, along with the pot, and carries it into the living room.   
  
Setting it on the table, he waits for it to steep.   
  
“So. Where to begin?”

“The beginning is usually a good place to start.”

There's no sarcasm in Randall’s tone and his soft smile erases any other sort of bite the words might be carrying. He even dares to pull the sunglasses off, finding that the dim light of the lamp is not as harsh as the full glow and he can safely tuck them away in his pocket for the next, inevitable time he'll need to use them.   
  
“...Did you know my mother died?”   
  
That's not the beginning. That's the most recent thing he's learned, but it's been bothering him all day and he knows that there's no other person in all the world who's going to understand what this is making him feel. The complicated misery of losing someone that had hurt him so badly his entire life; someone he'd still gone to great lengths for, long after she made it clear that it wouldn't be reciprocated. It's so perplexing, to have spent so long feeling plagued by her presence and now to miss it so much.    
  
The woman had  _ drowned  _ him for fucks sake. More than once. Burned a cross into the back of his neck, beat him daily for every imagined sin... and he still wanted to cry over the loss of her.   
  
“Just a year ago. Did...did any of you look in on her after I...?”   
  
He thinks he already knows the answer. He's bracing for it, for the inevitable guilt and misery that's going to wash over him.   
  
“What did she think happened to me? That I just ran away? Left her to fend for herself, just like my father did?”

“I...didn't realized she had passed, Randall. I'm so sorry.” Giles speaks softly and begins to pour the tea. “I tried to tell her you...that you were gone, you know. She...well, she attacked me with a broom, and she called me the devil tempting her good boy, and then some other things in Italian which I didn't understand exactly...but if I recall correctly, my mother's honor was questioned, especially in regards to her affection for...barnyard animals.”

Giles shakes his head, but doesn't suppress the small smile that comes unbidden at the memory.   
  
He hands Randall a cup and saucer and allows him to help himself to the sugar bowl.   
  
“I didn't dare approach her again after that, but, ah...I demanded that my father set up a trust to provide her with care, for the rest of her life. It wasn't fancy, I'm afraid.”

Giles' jaw sets as he clenches his teeth, and he sets the teapot down a tad bit too hard.

“"Blood money only goes so far," father said. But she had a roof over her head, and food, and someone to watch over her. I checked in before I left for the state's, and she seemed…”

(Confused. Afraid. Unsure of her surroundings. Like a small child being guided by the capable hands of a skilled nurse.)

“...to be doing alright. I didn't approach her, I'm afraid. I didn't want to agitate her.I don't know what she thought of your absence.”

“That was Mamma…”

Randall says, softly, smiling in spite of the sadness that makes his heart twinge when Rupert recounts his last, real encounter with Lia. She hadn't liked Randall, much, but she'd  _ hated  _ Ripper. Blamed him for everything when her memories really started to go; insisting that Randall had never been gay before him. That no one that pretty could be trusted.    
  
But his softly amused smile fades when Rupert goes on to tell him that he'd instructed  _ Ronald _ of all people to set up care for him. As glad as he is that someone thought to make sure she'd be okay...the idea that it was the same man who was torturing him day in and day out? He sort of wants to throw up, his last meager meal threatening to make a reappearance.    
  
He settled back against the couch, breathing slowly until the urge disappears and forces himself to smile, again, when he's told that she seemed to be doing well, once.   
  
“She probably didn't even remember me, after a while. She was starting to forget Alice. And my father. I think she only remembered me because I was constantly coddling her. If I'd shut her out, she would have just wandered the streets or something. Wouldn't have known any different.”   
  
He takes another deep breath, this time to keep the tears at bay. He's not crying, again. Not over this.   
  
“...Thank you. For making sure that she didn't end up alone. That was the last thing I wanted for her. She drove me crazy, no doubt, but...she was even harder on herself.”   
  
He swallows, hard, but manages to re-rail his train of thought.   
  
“...He told me that you didn't know that he'd done it, you know. Said that you had no idea that he'd brought me back, so I should put out any thoughts I had had that you'd be coming to save the day. I knew that you didn't know what he was doing. I never blamed you for any of it. And it's important to me that you know that before I even try to tell you what happened, because...it's not a good story and there is no happy ending. And you may not even want me here after you hear it. And I  _ will  _ leave if that's what you decide.”

Giles blinks very hard, but his eyes are still unusually shiny, even behind his glasses.

“I didn't know, Randall, I... I don't know how I didn't, but I didn't. I would have been there, I swear to you. I...hated leaving you there, with him...I have so many regrets......and I have no excuse. I was young and stupid and afraid, and I made all the worst choices...and I should never have left you…”   
  
In truth, Giles-then-Ripper didn't have any choice in the matter. He was pulled away from Randall's body by several unnaturally strong men, Ronald's minions, themselves too dark ops to be on the Council's payroll. He was told later he wounded one of them quite badly, but he was overpowered, sedated, and sent to the country.   
  
By the time he awoke, recovered, and made his way back to the city...it was beyond too late.   
  
Still, the nightmares come back, every do often, and every time he tries to fight just a little bit harder, be a little bit smarter...never to any avail.   
  
Giles coughs, and rearranges the teapot and sugar bowl.   
  
“But this isn't about me and my failings. Please, Randall, tell me what happened to you? There is nothing you can say that will make me ask you to go, I swear it.”

“You shouldn’t make promises that you don’t know you can keep.”

Randall says, gently, setting aside his teacup as he decides that he just doesn’t have the stomach for anything as long as he’ll be thinking and  _ talking  _ about this. He tries to keep his tone as even as possible, he doesn’t  _ want _ Rupert to think that he blames him for any of this; if it does sting a bit to have it confirmed that he was the one who put him in Ronald’s sights in the first place. He’d known that since the beginning and he understood why calling his father was the only thing that Rupert - then Ripper - could think to do in a situation like that, but that didn’t make hearing it any easier.   
  
He takes a deep breath and then looks past him. He doesn’t think he can look into those sea-glass coloured eyes and recite this particular tale.   
  
“...I don’t really remember dying. Or maybe it just happened too fast for me to have to remember anything. One second, I was just high. You know how it was. With him. Feeling like you were outside of your own body, tethered between worlds. Everywhere and nowhere all at once with confusing visions of colour and places you’ve never been dancing in your head. That’s all it was until it started to hurt.    
  
It wasn’t me in my body, after that. But it was like I was watching from somewhere inside of my head. Sharing a space too small with a demon too large to be contained and it was like being ripped apart from the inside. I was actually a little glad when I fell. When it was just over, because death doesn’t hurt at all. It’s like going to sleep.    
  
And I don’t know what happened after that. Nothing that matters. I wasn’t there, anymore. I was somewhere else. I can’t remember where. It was like it was too bright to see anything.    
  
And then, when I opened my eyes again, it was just...dark. And cold. I was lying on the floor, just like I’d been when I saw you for the last time and I thought that maybe I’d just dreamed the whole thing. I was about to jump up and swear off of it forever, because that was the worst trip of my life. But then I heard a voice that wasn’t yours say that it had worked and a man I’d never seen before was standing over me.   
  
Your father.”

He nods his head at Rupert, then, his eyes a little hazy as he recounts the memory.

“My second thought was that I had just finally landed in hell and that was the devil standing over me, because I’d never been as scared as I was when he smiled at me; and I’d nearly been _crucified_ once, so I know terror.    
  
He asked me if I knew who I was.    
  
And I did.    
  
He asked me if I remembered dying.   
  
And I sort of did.   
  
He asked me if I knew where I was. And that, I didn’t know So, he told me that I was in the basement of a building that the Watcher’s Council used for storage, now. Of course, that meant absolutely nothing to me. I had no idea what a Watcher was or why I was in the basement of their unused building. Or why he was telling me, because he proceeded to follow that up by saying that I’d never see the light of day again if I didn’t cooperate.   
  
...I think I asked him. Why he’d tell me where I was if I was supposed to be some kind of hostage. And he said it was because there was no one I’d ever be able to tell about it, anyway, so what was the point of keeping secrets? That he knew that the only person in my life was my schizophrenic mother and that all of my friends had run the second they’d seen my body, including his son. There was nothing left on Earth for me.    
  
And then was when he told me that he was the only person in the world who could change that. That he was going to give me a purpose. And he told me what he  _ did. _ ”

Randall’s voice catches in his throat. He has to put this next part into words, but it’s not going to be easy.

Giles listens, wide-eyed, as Randall speaks. His only reaction is when his fists clench in his lap at the calm recounting of his father's unspeakable cruelty.

“What did that bloody bastard do to you, Randall?”

“...He brought me back, but he didn’t bring me back  _ alone _ . I couldn’t really understand what I was feeling until he put it into words for me; words I wouldn’t have ever thought to use because it was just too horrifying of a conclusion to come to.”

He takes another deep breath, then finally Rupert in the eyes.

“He put part of the demon that killed me, in my body. And I could it feel it there. Like an electric current under my skin. Power that didn’t belong to me surging through my veins. And he, your father, I mean, told me that this was the greatest gift that he could have given anyone. That I was going to play a part in a war. That I should  _ thank  _  him for giving me the opportunity to really do something with my life.    
  
And then he put me in the cage for the first time. It wasn’t a very big space. Bought the size of the living room in my old flat. There was a little cot for sleeping in and a dresser… and he told me to get some rest, because we’d start training first thing in the morning.    
  
He was so  _ cheerful. _ Of all the odd things that he’d said to me in under an hour,  _ that _ was what I couldn’t wrap my head around. How he could be so pleased with himself, like he really thought he was doing me a favour. But I don’t think there’s anyone who’s ever met him that would doubt, even for a second, that he knew what a life-sentence this was. That he knew there was nothing he should be thanked for. Not by me, at least.”   
  
Randall’s hands are shaking in his lap. He’s visibly distressed by the memory; dark eyes wide and pupils dilated in an echo of the fear that he had felt that first night. The confusion. The betrayal. He wills his hands to steady, though, and looks back away from Rupert.   
  
“To be honest, I didn’t know that much about Eyghon. I had all that time to ask questions and learn about it, if I wanted to. We had the texts about him, but I never bothered to learn anything but how to summon and get rid of him. Maybe learning about him as a being rather than a way to get high would have made the whole thing too real for me. I think I would have bowed out, if I had known then what I know about him now, and I was always so afraid of making you think less of me.    
  
So, of course, you can imagine my surprise when I did start to learn about him and realized that there was much more to him than a toy for wayward teenagers looking for a thrill to top all others. Ronald explained him to me, in pieces, over time. A little more every day, always relating to what they wanted to see from me. It was...insane, hearing these things. Eyghon was painted to me as this great and terrible power that could raise armies of the dead, control the minds of the creatures around him, create visions and use telepathy. And they wanted me to do all the same things.    
  
That was what my life was from that point on. Day in and day out. Every day was another trial; another attempt to force that power out of me. They couldn’t teach me to use it, after all. All they could do was hope that if the circumstances were traumatic enough, that I would rely on some kind of instinct to make it work.    
  
Ronald is a very creative man, I’ll give him that. He always had new ideas. New ways to try and “train” me to use my new abilities the way he wanted me to.    
  
He wanted Eyghon’s ability to control the minds of those around him to be used specifically on vampires. If I could get in one’s head, I could neutralize the threat without ever putting anyone in danger. I could make it stake itself, or walk into the sun. So he’d bring a vampire down and lock it in with me. Tell me that if I wanted to live, I’d have to keep it from biting me.    
  
Obviously, I didn’t get the hang of it, immediately.”   
  
Randall shrugs out of his jacket and gestures to a faded but still visible scar of a bite mark on his arm. There are dozens more like it on different parts of his body, varying based on where the vampire could sink its teeth.    
  
“It took a while. And I couldn’t always do it. It was like that with all of it. Every ability he wanted me to have, I couldn’t do it right away. And even if I had, there was no telling when I’d do it again.    
  
The telekinesis was even harder than mind control, believe it or not. Because if I said something, the right way, I could be compelling. But there weren’t words to this. Hardly any feeling, even in my head. He started out by strapping me down to the floor and he sort of had this weird...machine. He’d put some kind of blade in it and it would slowly lower, the blade pointed at something non-vital, and tell me that I had to stop it with my mind.”   
  
There’s a smattering of scars against his chest, stomach, and legs, hidden, and he'll refrain from showcasing those. Some of them are worse than the bites. It took him years to figure out how to stop the blade from digging deeper into him and longer still to stop it from every cutting into him. Not that it stopped Ronald from trying.

“Oh...Randall…”

When his old friend mentions the demon they'd toyed with as reckless youths, Giles' hand shifts to touch the tattoo on his forearm. The stark, dark, daily reminder of the harm he caused, and how powerless he is against forces about which he knows so little. He can barely breathe through Randall's retelling of the nightmare he was forced to endure - forced by Giles' own father, damn him to hell.

Without thinking, he reaches over to brush his fingers across one of the, he's certain, many scars on Randall's beautiful body, but stops himself before actually makes contact with that once so familiar, now completely alien skin. Randall's had enough touching without consent, he won't intrude further.   
  
“Oh, Randall…”   
  
Giles seems to be incapable of uttering anything else, all other words seem so wan and trite against such an enormous tale. 

Randall’s quiet for a few minutes. Just trying to collect his thoughts and pull his mind back from the cold darkness of those memories. It takes considerable effort to ground himself back in the moment, but he manages a tight smile when he does his eyes re-focusing on his new and much better surroundings. He clears his throat.

“...Anyway, after nearly two decades, I'd gotten the hang of a lot of it. Not nearly as far as he likes to tell people; if I'm a weapon, I'm a pretty disappointing one. I can't control armies of the undead or make every vampire in a town walk out into the sun. Can't control more than five at a time without having a seizure. It'll take a lot more time to make my brain function at those levels of power. And my ability to compel people is touch and go. I don't always mean to it; I have to be very careful with how I word things. It'll happen by accident. Or it won't happen at all when I really need it. I'm pretty good at the telekinesis, though, I'd wager. Make things float without meaning to.   
  
...Only did the necromancy once. I don't remember that day at all. It's a blank spot in my memory, but it was apparently all someone named Travers needed to see to be convinced that I should be put to the test.    
  
See...that's why I'm here. But I'm not sure I was meant to help you. They don't like you very much, over there. That's how I figured you must be doing something right. That you must still be at least part of the man I knew, because anyone they hate has to be a friend of mine.”   
  
Randall laughs, then, but his good humour doesn't last long. That reminds him of something else, and he's speaking before he can stop himself.   
  
“...I could feel it through the tattoo, you know. When you were thinking of me. I mean, not just you. Everyone. Anyone who has this mark on their skin. And sometimes I could even see a flash of whatever had reminded you lot of me. I think it was the only thing that helped, in the beginning. Seeing bits and pieces of the world outside of the darkness, even if I wasn't sure I'd ever see it again, myself.  Of course, it was less and less over the years until no one thought about it, anymore. That hurt, a bit, but it was nice knowing that you could all move on from it. Figured someone had to pay for what we did, yeah, but since I was already down, might as well cover the tab for all of us.”   
  
He absently brushes his hand against his own shoulder, where his tattoo is; the mark that Ripper had put on his body with his own hand.   
  
“...I wouldn't have come back if I had a choice. Wouldn't have come through your life like this and disrupted everything all over again. If there'd been another way...well, just know that I'm sorry that this mess has been dumped on your doorstep. And I meant it, about you being able to tell me to leave if you need to.”

“You're not...some mess "dumped on my doorstep!"” Giles looks appalled at the very notion. “I...to be honest, I don't know what to think about you coming here, to Sunnydale, right now. My father obviously has some awful end game in mind, and figuring that out must be a priority.

But…”   
  
Giles pauses to gather his thoughts, and gives up when they refuse to assemble in any cohesive order.   
  
“I know it's wrong, and selfish, but...I'm so...unspeakably glad to see you again, Randall.”   
  
Giles reaches over to take Randall's hand, and he holds it tight.   
  
“We'll figure out your purpose. We'll find some way to...to help you develop your powers, if you wish...or, or divest you of them, if you prefer. And we can start first thing, in the morning.”   
  
Giles squeezes Randall's hand again before releasing his grip.   
  
“But for now, for right now...I'm so glad you're back.”

“I -”

He starts to speak, but then stops again, laughing a sad, broken laugh. He's quiet for a minute, trying to collect his own thoughts. But there's too much to process. Honestly, he hadn't been betting on any scenario where he was still welcome. Why would he be? He's just admitted to being a monster; some horrible, barely self-controlled creature whose abilities breach the minds and wills of other creatures. And he's made it clear that he doesn't have much information that'd be useful to anyone.    
  
It's a strange feeling. But he's not so ready to believe that there's anything or anyone really left for him in this world. This world that has moved on without him; kept turning long after he was "gone".   
  
“You know, Rupert, you remind me of someone that I used to know.”   
  
He says, finally, his gaze on the hand that Rupert had just been holding. He'd let go, but Randall can still feel the warmth of his hold like an echo.   
  
“This "someone' was an eighteen-year-old in a shite band, who had eyes the colour of sea-glass and a crooked smile. And he wagered his prized possession in a game of snooker, on the off chance that he'd win me from my "boyfriend", just because he didn't like how mean he was being to me.    
  
Told me, after he'd won and whisked me away, that I wasn't allowed to call him a hero. Said he wasn't one.    
  
But uh, you tell me.” Randall looks back up at him, a faint smile curling his lips and the memory of that night still dancing in his gaze.   
  
“What else should you call a man who's willing to risk everything just because he doesn't like the way he sees a stranger being treated?   
  
More to the point...   
  
What do you call a man who does it  _ twice _ ?”


End file.
